Why do you care?
by Anger Anchor
Summary: Demon!Stiles...also, smut.
1. Chapter 1

It's late, or early depending on how you look at it, and Derek is practically dragging Stiles home from Lydia's birthday party. He has no idea why Stiles chose to call him other than the thought it might have been a drunk dial; a five times in a row drunk dial. Stiles is talking about absolutely nothing and everything at the same time; he's got an arm slung up over Derek's shoulders and the other waving around to emphasize his words.

The stairs are a sincere challenge for a one hundred and forty-seven pound light weight drunkard. That's when Stiles finally gets quiet and Derek assumes it's his way of concentrating on putting one foot in front of the other since he's had his fair share of verbal warnings that there was no way in hell Derek was about to carry him.

Stiles' bedroom door slams open with the pressure of Derek's palm flat against it, once the bed is in plain sight Stiles seems to think he regains the ability to walk in a straight line; he goes down hard face first into the mattress with a groan. Reluctantly, Derek drags himself to the edge of the bed and pushes Stiles onto his side with a huff, tossing a few pillows and clothes from the floor behind his back to keep him from rolling over too far; he didn't need him puking in his sleep.

The V of Stiles' hip is partially exposed and Derek notices a huge gash and some road rash along the taut skin. Curiously he lifts the cotton fabric upwards towards Stiles' sternum, there's scabs forming over the scraped skin but its the deep purple bruising that gets Derek's eyes to pop open.

"What the hell did you do?"

"Huh? Wha-oh. Yeah, that. Just...being stupid. It's uh-fine", Stiles waves him off and tries to push down his shirt again; he winces in the process.

Derek gets his first good look at Stiles since he picked up him: his eyes are sunken in, skin flushed in a mix of pink and green. He looks tired and sick, as if he hasn't slept in days. Try as he might Derek can't shake the fact that he's worried, he hasn't been back to Beacon Hills in months and to come home to a tattered up Stiles has him concerned. Ignoring Stiles' request to drop the subject, Derek pushes his flimsy hand away and flattens his own palm along Stiles' belly; taking away some of the obvious pain.

Even drunk Stiles knows better for when to fight Derek and when to just accept the stubborn wolfs help. The pain decreases significantly, allowing Stiles to sink into the mattress with a relieved sigh. His face buries into the pillow in a slight embarrassment over his willingness to let Derek sooth away his pain but man did his ribs feel better.

There's a void that floods through Stiles' body the moment Derek's hand lifts away from his skin, callused fingers tugging the fabric back down over his lithe frame. Honeycomb hues are anchored to Derek's soft simper, Stiles can't believe Derek actually answered the phone. Not only that but he drove him home, nearly carried him inside /and/ took away some of the immediate pain; without Stiles having to ask.

He catches the wolfs gaze for a split second and lets out a nervous laugh, "Thanks..?"

Derek fully ignores him, leaning over to grab another pillow to keep this idiot from choking on his own bile in the middle of the night. On the way back to his kneeling position their proximities are too close, Derek's face is hovering just above Stiles'. For what its worth, Stiles does his best not to stare right into Derek's eyes but he does watch speckled green and gold orbs take notice of his parted lips; gulping down every sarcastic remark zipping into his head. Out of habit, Stiles' tongue flickers across his lips with a breath that reeks of whiskey swarming over Derek's features.

"Don't do that", Derek hisses out, "it's distracting..." He's referring to the motion of Stiles' tongue, of course.

"I didn't...wha-you-I-but-...okay", Stiles' mouth snaps shut as he bravely makes eye contact.

There should be more tension between them right now, besides the butterflies flapping around in Stiles' stomach everything seems to be running smoothly. Derek's eyes drop down to Stiles' heart, its beating so loud it's all he can focus on.

"Relax."

"Haah." Stiles breathes out. /Relaxation/ wasn't a characteristic he possessed, especially with Derek all of two inches from his face.

Derek's fingers fiddle with the hem of Stiles' shirt, palm finding the crook between his hip and rib cage; his thumb swooping carefully over mangled flesh. The gentleness of the touch elicits a stuttered breath of confusion and consolation from Stiles, his fingers courageously padding against Derek's hovering frame. He has no idea why this is happening or why he's so content to let it continue, but he's worried opening his mouth will make it stop. So he lays there, quietly breathing and waiting for Derek to make the next move.


	2. Chapter 2

Apparently that next move never takes places, or if it had, it is a complete blank in the hung over mind of Stiles. The bathroom is lit from the suns rays alone, warming his toes on the cool tile as he wriggles them around. Derek's still in there, in his room, back against the wall and chin tucked to his chest. He must have stayed up all night, Stiles assumes, since he didn't budge when the door creaked and nearly slammed a few minutes ago.

Stiles avoids his reflection. It's always the same anyways: pale skin, sunken in features that force him to believe he's in a constant state of warring off an inner zombie and always the taste of copper flooding his tongue. The cool water from the tap stings his flesh with every splash, it's necessary though; he knows he must have slept at some point, it just doesn't feel like it. It never feels like it. The gash on his side aches in a terrible pain, forcing his wet digits to peel back the thin layer of cotton covering his torso.

"Son of a...", his voice echoes around the empty bathroom as he examines the wound. It's as if all Derek's effort to take away pain was a complete loss. The bruise seems deeper, darker and maybe even new. With a groan he drops the hem of his shirt and pushes off the running water, letting his still damp fingers comb through the matted hair on his head with a stressful sigh. It's in that moment he catches sight of his reflection, it's worse than he thought, but there's little time for the thought to register before his fist is flying into the glass.

The sound is non-existent to him, there should be clanking and clicking noises of broken mirror tumbling over the sink and floor; but its dead silent. Stiles' wavering hand reaches for an oversized slice of mirror, clasping it to the point of drawing blood from his palm and fingers. Spinning on heels, the hallway and its knick knacks rush by him as if he was running, just blurs of color until he's reaching for his bedroom door handle and slowly pushing it open.

Derek's up, tucking an arm into his old worn leather jacket when he makes eye contact with Stiles. His brows link together instantly when he catches sight of the blood dripping to the floor from the jagged edge of glass stuck in Stiles' hand. Holding up a set of surrendering palms, Derek's voice is almost calming when he speaks.

"Stiles...what are you doing?"

"Get out."

"Why did you-"

"GET OUT, DEREK!" Stiles' voice rings in the air, cold and distant, and Derek's features go sullen.

"Put it down, Stiles. You're bleeding." Still calm, his statuesque limbs take a pace forward, palms remaining flat and forward facing.

"If you don't get out, I'll kill you."

Derek's teeth grit and he looses a straining eye contact. The usual amber hues that flood Stiles' orbs are dark and cloudy, and Derek can't bring himself to maintain a visual link. Taking another pace forward he reaches for the thin wrist of the lanky limbed boy in front of him, trapping him in a demanding hold; but Stiles is quick and he switches hands to hold the blade to his own throat.

"Get out or I'll kill him, too."

Derek stares at unrecognizable features, jaw falling slack for a moment while registers the fact that Stiles just referred to himself in the third person. Sea colored spheres flit down to the limited space between them and focus on the blood stained carpet, his oversized palm still wrapped at Stiles' now empty wrist. Looking up, Derek growls out Stiles' name again and lets his orbs tinge in a deep red, digits pressing a bruise into the frail flesh encased in his palm. The glass drops and Stiles' thin frame staggers a little, lungs filling with a shaky breath. His hand instantly forms a closed fist, the other trying desperately to escape Derek's grip. He finally looks up to meet the wolfs concerned gaze, bewilderment etching his white washed features.


End file.
